I remember the feeling of tapping my foot. Tap. Tap. Tap. Seven-year-old small me sitting in the middle of the big sanctuary stage at my first trumpet recital, trying to find the rhythm, the beat. I must have tapped my black patent leather shoe twenty times before I took the biggest breath my little lungs could hold and blew the first note of Hot Cross Buns.
It’s been 24 years, but sometimes I still feel like that little girl with the crimped hair and missing front teeth, desperately trying to find the rhythm. To know for certain that my feet, my fingers, my heart, my life are centered on the right beat before I make my first move.
But unfortunately three crazy little boys are not the patient audience that attended my inaugural recital. I don’t have time each morning to wait until I feel perfectly prepared before playing my mother song. If I waited, I’d probably be tapping for a long, loooong time.
So I’m learning to find my rhythm in Christ. Learning to listen, desiring to synchronize my steps with the Spirit and trust that as I follow God I will play well the song story He has written just for me.
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